


A Princess' Fairytale

by oswhine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oswhine/pseuds/oswhine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why do people envy princesses? Because they consider them beautiful, even if their noses are too big or their eyes too small? Because they’re rich, covered in a second skin of glittering jewels? Because they’re pampered, drinking their cream with a silver spoon and a personal maid kneeling at their feet? Because they command the respect of people who talk about them behind their backs? Because they live such a glamorous life, brushing against the rich and famous, the people who are untouchable to everyone else? </p><p>Why do princesses envy people? For the same reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea from this post: http://underworldwrites.tumblr.com/post/113901190301/oh-god-royal-aus  
> check out this awesome edit inspired by this fic!!: http://shakespeareia.tumblr.com/post/146333642592/a-krumione-arranged-marriageroyaltyau-in-which

_Why do people envy princesses?_ Because they consider them beautiful, even if their noses are too big or their eyes too small? Because they’re rich, covered in a second skin of glittering jewels? Because they’re pampered, drinking their cream with a silver spoon and a personal maid kneeling at their feet? Because they command the respect of people who talk about them behind their backs? Because they live such a glamourous life, brushing against the rich and famous, the people who are untouchable to everyone else?

_Why do princesses envy people?_ For the same reasons.

Hermione Granger, only child of the king and queen of Scotland, leaning against the side of a ship tossed at sea, pulling her cloak tighter around her and wishing on every miniscule star in the sky and every white crest of wave that she was just a normal girl who wished she could be a princess. Instead she was sailing to a foreign land, to meet a stranger that she would wed in just a handful of days. This stranger, this prince who lived in a castle of hard stone walls, spoke a language she didn’t know one word of. In his official portrait, sent all the way to Scotland just so it could hang in Hermione’s bedroom, on the wall facing her bed, he looked stern and distant, a man who would never touch his wife in a manner that wasn’t official. Every night she went to bed with his eyes watching her, and every night she was filled with more dread because it was one less day before she would have to marry this cold man. Those days had fallen away like autumn leaves, slowly and then all at once until you couldn’t even remember when they’d burned on the skeletal branches of the tree they lay beneath, and now today, today was her eighteenth birthday and she was spending it at sea, rocked by the frigid waves, her seasick parents confined to their cabin after wishing her a weak, “Happy birthday.” She felt stuffed with self pity, and it was satisfying to look at the gray waves, as gray as her future. It seemed to her like they were washing her happiness away.

Normal girls could marry for love. She was marrying for politics.

Right now, if she was a normal girl, she would be giggling into a handkerchief she’d embroidered herself over the village boys. She would be daydreaming as she folded pastry. She would be whistling a waltz as she hung up laundry. She would be free.  

She would not be huddled in a fur wrap, sent courtesy of her new husband for her birthday with promises of many more to come. Yes. She would need many furs to keep her warm in her husband’s home. But it wouldn’t be the temperature she would need them to protect her against; no, it would her husband’s icy manner towards her. She could just see him, his cold dark eyes sliding over her, sitting across from her down a long wasteland of lonely table and never meeting her eyes, never warming his skin against hers or taking her in his arms for comfort.

She knew what her parents would say if they knew her thoughts: “You read too many books,” and then, her father might add, frowning, “It’s not becoming in a lady.”

But Hermione didn’t care. Books were the foremost pleasure in her life. How would she learn about places she would never visit and skills she would never have heard of without them? How would she escape into the imagination of another person or step into another girl’s shoes? How could she even imagine what it would be like to be a normal girl without them?

Her new _husband_ \- the word a poisonous thorn even spoken inside her head - would have no time for books, and would have no interest in them if he did have the time. Maybe he’d have some volumes sitting around as decoration, but no more.

“Your highness!”

Those words, those detestable words, made her turn round. One of the servants they’d brought with them, beckoning to her.

With a sigh, she made her way towards him, stepping with care on the shifting surface she hadn’t got used to yet.

“Your mother is fretting about you, your highness,” the man said when she drew near to him, drawing his shoulders up to his ears to try to protect them from the biting wind, “She’s requesting that come down below deck, into the warm.”

Hermione assented. You couldn’t say no to the queen, even if she was your mother. Maybe that was why royalty was always so well behaved.

The warmth rushed to envelop her as soon as they stepped down into the cabin, and maybe it was this that caused her to venture: “Do you have a special girl? Back home, I mean?”

He sighed, and his eyes seemed the reflect the far away face of the girl who kept his heart. “I do, your majesty. The sweetest highland girl you’ll ever meet, eyes bluer than the sky even on the clearest summer day. I do love her.”

But Hermione already knew that he did. And her heart sank, because she knew a man would never look like that when thinking about her.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione meets her Prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you know, this story is a fanfic, set in an alternate universe. So, the geography and the historical accuracy are not perfect. They are how I envisioned them in my mind, and so how they are in this universe.

In less days than Hermione would have liked they had reached Bulgaria, and the boat was anchored in the dark water below the castle Durmstrang, where it looked down upon them with slitted eyes. More of that cold dread filled Hermione as she looked up at it. She couldn’t imagine ever calling it home.

Her parents were in a hurry to reach solid ground, so no time was wasted in getting the small boat lowered into the water that would bring them to the shore. The oarsman was to return, in trips, for their luggage.

Standing on the shoreline like an army marching to battle were thick fir trees standing shoulder to shoulder. And there, beneath them, a small gathering of solemn looking figures which made Hermione’s heart jump. One of those people was surely her betrothed. She looked into her lap as the boat neared the shore.

“Ah, Nikola!” She heard her father cry, addressing the Bulgarian king, at the same moment that the boat bumped against the dock. A lock of hair slipped loose from the hairstyle her maid had carefully pinned for her that morning as dawn’s early sun had made shadows through the cabin window. But there was no time to fix it now, as her father was saying: “You remember my Eleanor, and I, of course, remember your lovely Ivet.” Now, he would be kissing the queen’s hand with a kiss as light as air. “May I introduce my daughter - “ her father’s hand sought hers and she, unwillingly, took it, “Hermione?” She was helped onto the dock, wavering slightly at first after the sudden change from sea to stability, but she remembered her formalities and bowed deep at the king and queen’s feet, before rising, trembling.

And there he was. The prince. Maybe it was just seeing him in flesh and blood rather than translated into flat strokes of paint, but he didn’t look as cold as he’d always seemed. He looked so _real_. This was the man she was to marry. Even if he didn’t look as cold as she’d expected, he still wasn’t the prince charming she used to dream of. He had a hooked nose and dark eyebrows, and had an almost dangerous look about him, but there was a certain awkwardness about his posture that prevented him from completing this effect. He looked like he was trying to hide his feelings behind an emotionless mask, and it was succeeding just enough that it prevented her from knowing what his first impressions were of her, but was weak enough for her to know it was false.

“It is good to see you as well, Wendell,” said the Bulgarian king in a strong, breathy accent. Hermione could see the son in the father: he had the same hooked nose and thick eyebrows, although his eyebrows and hair were a sleek silver in colour. His wife, the queen, was younger, with dark hair and arched eyebrows, and made Hermione thankful that at least her soon-to-be-husband was close in age to herself. “And to meet your charming daughter at last,” continued King Nikola. “I will present my son, Viktor.” Now the prince stepped forward, a small smile on his lips that showed he wasn’t as confident as his father in public affairs. But then he reached forward and took Hermione’s gloved hand, bringing it to his lips. Their eyes met for a brief second before his darted away and he dropped her hand abruptly.

 _He doesn’t like me_ , she thought suddenly, stung. _I’m not what he was looking for either_.

They walked up to the castle, their parents talking ahead of them, but they walked beside each other in a strained silence. Would it always be like this? Would a silence that longed for words always exist between them?

They had to walk up a long trail of stairs to get to the castle and it stood above them the whole time, silent and foreboding. It was built with black stone and had a menacing look to it, as if it had been built to say: “Keep away!” And Hermione wanted to obey it, wanted to turn away from the prince and her duties and the castle, and sail back to Scotland, to home. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t free. She was a princess.

**  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prince gives Hermione a tour of her new home.

Once they had entered the castle and were standing in the dimly lit entrance hall, King Nikola said, “Viktor, why don’t you show Hermione around the castle? Her parents already know it, but she has never seen it before.”

The Prince nodded once, before turning away and walking down one of the corridors leading off the hall without saying a word to Hermione. She followed him. She was eager to see the castle, study her new residence, find the little hideaways that she might escape to when the pressure of her duties weighed too heavily on her shoulders. Or when she wanted to escape the remote presence of her husband. Walking behind him, she could see that he was duck footed and round shouldered. He looked as out of place in the shadowy corridors of the castle as she felt.

Durmstrang was smaller than Hogwarts, her home - _or_  , she thought, swallowing, _how I must think of it, my previous home_. To think that she would never live in those warm walls again, sneak through her favourite secret passages to the library late at night after she’d stayed up late reading to find a new book, would never descend the winding stairs at a bound to the great hall to dine again, was misery. Yes, she would return someday, but only as a guest. She would never belong there again. Those days were over.

The prince’s tour was short and to the point. He would pull open a heavy wooden door, look at her expectantly, and she would stick her head in to see the throne room or the chapel or whatever it was, and then he would pull the door closed again. All the rooms seemed dark and empty. At Hogwarts they’d left all the doors open and had had fires burning in each room to keep them cheery and warm. Obviously that was not the way things were done at Durmstrang.

He only commented on the rooms three times: upstairs, Hermione was surprised when the prince opened a door to reveal a bedroom. She would have thought those were too personal to be shown on her first tour.

“My room,” he said shortly, in an accent that was even more heavy than his father’s, and Hermione was so surprised at hearing him speak that she jumped a little, startled. He was closing the door again when she noticed something.

“Wait,” she said, “Wait a minute,” and took a step into the room. There was his bed, dark and lurking, like a fierce beast hiding in the depths of the jungle, but there, opposite...her portrait, in the same position as the one she possessed of him had been placed back at Hogwarts. She looked at him over her shoulder. He was standing by the door moodily, as if impatient to finish the tour. She turned away.

She’d almost forgotten the painting. There she was, cushioned in her frothy lavender dress, holding her fan delicately in her lap. She had never worn that dress or used that fan before or since. Her hair was in ringlets curling round her neck, her cheeks pink and plump, a secret smile on her lips. It made her look very beautiful. Of course the prince had been disappointed. He had been expecting this girl who looked like she’d stepped out of a dream and instead he’d got her, plain and thin, all bushy hair and teeth too big for her mouth. She walked past him out of the room and he closed the door behind her.

He spoke again when he showed her the room next door.

“Your room, and your sitting room,” he said the last words while nodding at a door set into the wall.

So this was where she would be residing for the rest of her years. It was dark, despite the large gothic windows set into one wall. They looked over the ocean. Hermione could see the ship sitting in the harbour, like a child’s toy dropped on a rug. There was a four poster bed and the usual furnishings made of the same dark wood as every other piece of furniture in the house, and the hangings were of a deep blue, matching the curtains. She noticed there was a space opposite the bed for his portrait to hang. They’d brought it over on the boat with them. The oarsman was probably ferrying it over now. The room felt very impersonal. It did not welcome her. Would it ever grow to fit around her?

The prince seemed to waiting for her response. She nodded once, and they went back out into the passageway.

The last room he showed her was at the back of the castle, looking out over the thick forest. This time, the prince looked at her before even opening the door. She got the feeling he had purposefully saved this room for last. She couldn’t see what it contained from standing in the doorway, so she stepped inside - and gasped. It was a magnificent library. The walls were lined with bookshelves, and each shelf was stuffed with books. There was a fire with some cushions placed before it for especially cold evenings, and a window seat running underneath the window. The ceiling was high and curved upwards until it came to a point. It was even more beautiful than the library at Hogwarts. But the books…? Hermione’s hand stretched out towards a shelf before she remembered her manners. It would be impolite to rifle through the books now. There would be years of time for that. She turned to look back at the prince. He cleared his throat.

“This was a,” he hesitated, “Extra bedroom, but I,” here he hesitated even more, “I hear you like books so I ask father to - “ He struggled to find words and eventually decided to end the sentence with a sweep of his hand, before letting it drop to his side.

Hermione waited patiently for him to finish. “Thank you.”

The prince looked down, and her mood sunk again. He didn’t even want to look at her, because he would be reminded every time he saw her face that she wasn’t the girl that had been presented to him in her portrait. He’d done all this for that girl, not her.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The day had passed, and faded into night, and now the two royal families had drifted into the great hall to dine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so many doubts reading all this over...like I'm worried my Hermione isn't *Hermione* enough...

The day had passed, and faded into night, and now the two royal families had drifted into the great hall to dine. It had started to rain, so fiercely that they could hear its impact even in the hall, a windowless room tucked into the heart of the castle. The long table, exactly like the one Hermione had pictured in her mind, sat facing an enormous fireplace with the Durmstrang coat of arms gleaming over it. Hermione was seated opposite the prince, and again, just like she had imagined, he avoided looking at her, concentrating on the Bulgarian delicacies they had been served.

After dinner they went and sat in a room just off the great hall.

“Now, I suppose we should talk formalities,” Hermione’s father began.

King Nikola nodded, “If you think the time has come then we must.”

“We’ve brought Hermione’s personal maid along with us, I assume you have a place for her?”

“Oh, no, that will not be necessary,” said the king, placing a hand on the small of his wife’s back absentmindedly, “We prefer to have a staff that is composed entirely of those fluent in Bulgarian - it makes for a more smoothly run household, you see. We have already hired a personal maid for the princess.”

“I see,” said the Scottish king, glancing at his daughter.

Having her maid - a girl her own age - accompany her had been such a comfort to Hermione. She’d thought, _at least I won’t be entirely alone_ , but now even that had been taken away from her. She didn’t say anything, just looked up to the high ceiling to try to dissuade the tears that had suddenly gathered in her eyes.

She walked up to her new bedroom that night accompanied by the prince and a despair in her heart. The future seemed full of bleak and miserable nights like this one, walking upstairs next to a man she didn’t love who didn’t love her.

When they reached her bedroom door the prince turned to her.

“Goodnight,” he said stiffly, a muscle jumping in his cheek, _from the effort of trying to keep his gaze on me,_ Hermione thought.

He stood there for a moment longer, and Hermione was about to turn away, when his hand reached out impulsively towards the stray lock of hair that had fallen out of her hairpins earlier. It hovered in the air for a minute, but he seemed to change his mind, and lowered his arm. They stared at each other for a moment before the prince ducked his head and turned away quickly towards his room. Hermione was left staring at his back. Confusion rippled through her mind as she entered the drafty bedroom. Wherever her new maid was, she hadn’t yet come in here. No fire burned expectantly in the grate. She was completely alone. Only one more day stood between her and her marriage. And the day after that her parents would cross the cold sea back to Scotland and their royal duties and she wouldn’t see them again for months.

 _Don't be silly_ , she scolded herself, wrapping her arms around herself, _you’re an adult now, you can bear an adult’s burdens. And you can always write them letters_.

With this reassurance in her mind, she slipped into the great bed, but not into sleep. The rain pounded against the window, and she was overly sensitive of the fact that the prince was sleeping just a wall away from her, that in two days she would be married, and more alone than she had ever been previously. She could feel every goosebump on her skin. It was late in the night when sleep finally pulled her under.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prince gives Hermione another tour, this time of the dark and fog-soaked grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do NOT know Bulgarian, I just used Google Translate. I apologize to any Bulgarian speakers who may stumble upon this, I know it must be awful. If you do know Bulgarian, and want to help correct my mistakes, leave a comment below! Like always, I have doubts about characterization, so if you do too, just remember I'm neither perfect nor JK Rowling.

Hermione was woken by a sharp pounding on the door, and a female voice crying shrilly, “ _Sŭbudete_ _se_! Your royal highness!”

She sat up just as a stout, middle-aged maid entered the room. Hermione soon realised that the only words of English she knew were ‘your royal highness.’ Between a babble of Bulgarian and a complicated mime, Hermione understood that she was to go downstairs for breakfast. The maid came over to help dress her, but Hermione, looking at the her rough, unfamiliar hands, said: “No, no, it’s alright, I can do it myself.”

The woman looked at her helplessly. Hermione sighed and tried mimicking the woman by acting it out, but it was hopeless. The maid just stared at her, confused, until Hermione held out her arms and let her do her task.

This morning there was mist in the air, and some of it had seeped into the castle, filling the hallways with a light fog, making it appear even more like something out of a ghost story. Hermione became lost, the fog choking her vision and the only vaguely familiar passageways of the castle, and when she finally found the great hall, everyone else was already seated. The prince rose from his chair when he saw her, probably because her cheeks, flushed from embarrassment and hurry, brought her closer in resemblance to the girl in her portrait.

When she was seated King Nikola said, “I had thought that Viktor would show you around the grounds after breakfast, but it seems that will have to be put off.”

Hermione looked up at the prince, but his eyes were on his plate.

Then she looked down at hers, and suddenly he was saying: “No. We will still go.”

His father said something to him in Bulgarian, eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

But the prince shook his head, insisting on something.

King Nikola turned to face Hermione. “Do you mind going out in such bad weather, princess? It will - cover all the sights.”

“No,” she said quietly, “I don’t mind,” because she suddenly felt the urge to be outside in the open air, to at least pretend she was free for a while, even if the wind that twisted through her hair was beaded with fog.

“Well, make sure to wear lots of furs.” And so it was settled.

After the meal, the prince said, “I will meet you down - “ he nodded his head to indicate the entrance hall. Then he was walking away, in that abrupt, impatient manner of his.

When he did come, he was cradling a large box in his arms. “For you,” he said, passing the box to Hermione.

She removed the lid, revealing a layer of soft tissue paper. Slipping her hand underneath, Hermione’s fingers brushed against something oh-so-soft, so soft that she let out an involuntary gasp. She pulled the tissue paper away, and there, crossed with a velvet ribbon the colour of blood, was a pure white fur coat. It was so soft it was slippery, trying to escape Hermione’s hands as she held it up. She had never felt something so luxurious or indulgent. She supposed that furs composed the majority of Bulgarians outfits, so naturally their clothiers would be masters of the texture like the ones in London were over silk and satin.  

 “Oh, this is beautiful! What’s it made of?”

“ _Polyarna mechka_ ,” he said. His tongue wrapped so naturally around the words. She wished all of a sudden that she could speak Bulgarian. But there would be plenty of time to learn. Still, it was embarrassing that he had apparently struggled with studying the basics of English while she had stubbornly refused to even think of asking for Bulgarian lessons.

“I don’t - “ she faltered, “What?”

He just shrugged. He was a prince, he wouldn’t sink to charades as her maid had that morning. His dignity was forever pinned to his chest.

“Well, thank you.” There was a pink-tinged, embarrassed silence. Hermione stroked the sleeve of her new coat, the tiny hairs shifting with the slightest touch of her fingers. So many individual, miniscule hairs, insignificant alone, but together, forming something of magnificence.

“We go,” said the prince, shrugging on his own furs. They were as black as her coat was white, so dark that it seemed as if there was a depth to them, as if the prince had decked himself in a black hole. But he didn’t stop to help Hermione into her coat, another subtle snub, because of course he had imagined that lavender dream girl wearing it, a sparkling champagne smile on her lips as she hugged it to her.

Outside, the trees stood silent, dipped in fog. A single bird cried from the depths of the forest. Hermione noticed that the prince seemed more at home out here, without a roof over his head to limit his dreams. But he didn’t take her arm, as a gentleman would have. Instead he stood staring into the sky, lost from her. The bird cried stridently again and he blinked, pulled back to the world.

“This way,” he announced, starting down a path that led away from the bay, hugging the castle.

The cold and quiet were different here than in Scotland, more penetrating. While they seemed to just enfold one in Scotland, here they sought a home in the marrow of one’s very bones. Hermione shivered, but the prince seemed unfazed. But then, he’d spent many a day in these conditions; he’d been raised on the soaking silence, on a bed of ice.

The path they were following entered the trees, and it was as if they had entered another castle; it felt as if they were trespassing in someone else’s domain, stealing under someone else’s roof. But again, the prince didn’t seem to mind the unnerving atmosphere, pushing tree branches away from their path in his stride. He seemed powerful in a way he hadn’t touched before; maybe this was _his_ domain.

The path wound through the woods like a snake. Hermione didn’t know which direction the castle was in any longer; it was dark in the forest, and Hermione was getting colder, despite her fur coat. And she was more and more aware that she was deep in a dark forest with a strange man, even if she would be marrying him tomorrow. Oh, if only the wedding could be delayed for a week more! Then the man she would kiss in her pearl-encrusted wedding veil would be less of a stranger.

The trees began to thin out, and Hermione could hear the roar of the sea beckoning them. They left the treeline, and there, perched on the edge of the lake, was a tall black tower. It looked as though it had been cut away from the main castle and placed here by the hand of a giant.

They had not spoken a word since they’d left the castle, but now he said: “Do you want to go in?” He paused, “Herm-own-ninny?”

She couldn’t help laughing, even if she’d felt a slight thrill when he’d spoken her name. This was the first time he’d addressed her by her name. She didn’t quite know what to think. A strange, nameless feeling stirred in her gut. “What did you say?”

He coloured slightly, but valiantly tried again: “Her-my-own?”

She laughed again, “Good enough,” and this time the prince joined in her laughter. He had a loud, rich laugh that gave her pleasure to hear. It was a true laugh, not faked or put on to be polite. For a moment she thought of slipping her arm through his, but then thought better of it. Just because they’d shared a laugh did not mean either of them had tripped into love. Instead, she walked behind him, as she had before, into the tower.

The walls inside were slippery, wetted by fog, moss as dark as the walls it grew upon crawling up them.

“Watch,” said the prince, indicating the steps, which were as slick as the walls.

The darkness swallowed them as they climbed, no lights to guide the way or windows to spread daylight through the narrow stairway. Hermione focused on the back of the prince’s pale neck, which looked tinged with green in this atmosphere. She wanted to ask the purpose of the tower - as eerie as it was, it intrigued her, this solitary tower hidden from the view of the castle - but she knew he wouldn’t understand her words. She would have to get used to that. A life of forever holding back her words, unwillingly being the obedient quiet wife who lay at her husband’s feet like a dog, the type of woman she loathed.

Faint streaks of light reached down to them, and they emerged at the top of the tower. Hermione let out a gasp. On one side of the tower, they could see the endless expanse of the gray sea, and on the other side, another forever ocean, this one of trees. It made her dizzy, it made her doubt her life up to this point. Being up here, with nothing but sighing waves and tree branches rubbing against each other for miles, made everything seem so pointless, so small. Human life was so short, really. These trees, this ocean, they would live on unchanged for thousands of human lifetimes. She was nothing compared to them. Nothing.

As if sensing her thoughts, the prince caught her arm to steady her. She was startled, but too shaken already to make a visible reaction. But suddenly all her thoughts had fled from eternity to concentrate on the pressure of the prince’s fingers curled round her upper arm, the sense of him standing right behind her, closer than they’d ever been near each other before.

“ _Ne e li krasivo,_ ” he whispered in Bulgarian, as if he’d forgotten she was a stranger to his language, “ _Zhivot_?” But she felt that she knew what he meant.

“Yes,” she breathed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding guests start to arrive, including some familiar faces...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, my chapter summaries are so stupid

When they got back to the castle, the wedding guests had started to arrive, trunks and moody women, attended by their straight-faced husbands, cluttering the great hall. They all cried out when Hermione and the prince entered, a blend of many different languages floating in the air, Bulgarian dominating.

Hermione searched through the many faces staring curiously at her, seeking the English royal family. They would have been invited, surely? Before she could ascertain whether they were present or not, her father pushed through the crowd.

“Hermione, my darling, you have wedding duties to attend to. We don’t have much time, seeing as the wedding is tomorrow.” As if she needed reminding. “You were gone quite a long time, you know,” he commented as he escorted her up the stairs. And so she and the prince were separated. She looked back to see him shaking hands, a brave smile on his face, so unnatural compared to the way he’d opened his mouth wide, baring all his teeth, when he’d laughed with her earlier. She turned away and followed her father up the stairs.

~

That night there was a formal banquet in the great hall. Royals and nobles representing countries across the globe united at one table, gathered for a wedding. During the bustle of the afternoon, Hermione hadn’t seen the prince again, nor had she been able to ask whether the British royals would be attending. And now the prince was occupied, listening to the king of one of the neighbouring countries rant about something, speaking so rapidly she couldn’t discern which language he was speaking, and her parents were seated at the opposite end of the table, at the moment nodding gravely at something a man with golden hair was saying to them.

King Nikola rose and the chatter circling the table ceased. He raised his goblet and began his speech in Bulgarian, repeating it in his accented English: “I would like to propose a toast - of course I shall make a more elaborate one tomorrow, but seeing as the atmosphere is so rosy, I will make one now as well - to my son and Princess Hermione of Scotland, towards all happiness today, tomorrow, and for the rest of their lives, and towards all happiness for the unity of the two countries they represent!” Everyone clapped and raised their drinks to their lips. Hermione’s eyes caught the prince’s across the table, and just for a moment it seemed as if he was giving her a small smile, just for her, but then he took a sip of his wine and she wasn’t sure whether it had been an illusion or not.

She felt weary, tired by expectations and necessary niceties. Normal girls could eat their dinner without having to be extra careful of their table manners because they were sitting next to a Duke.

She was relieved when it was all over, when the guests had retired to their rooms, because of course when you are soon to be married to the host you must remain up to the last.

Her weariness prevented her from seeing properly at first the trio of people standing in the great hall next to their trunks. But then her eyes sought the blazing red hair and her heart jumped. They had come! Only three of them, but they had come. Prince William, who would soon be king, with his arm round his wife, the previous princess of France, Princess Fleur, and finally, Hermione’s favourite out of the family, Princess Ginevra, the youngest and the single girl born into the family. Forgetting her official manner, she grasped handfuls of her dress and ran towards her oldest, only friend. The two girls embraced. This, her friendship with Ginny, was her closest tie towards being a normal girl. They had taken advantage of their kingdom’s close relationship and proximity since they were children, when they used to chase each other through the halls of their separate castles, ribbons slipping out of their hair, stiff shoes clasped in their hands so they could run barefoot, deaf to the cries of nursemaids and servants, because they were together, they were happy, they were almost free. They could no longer play with such abandon - young ladies of royal breeding had certain standards to uphold - but they still shared many whispered secrets, confident in the fact that neither could tell.

“Ginny!” Hermione was smiling in a way she hadn’t since before she’d left Scotland, with a grin that stretched her face, the type of smile her mother disapproved of because it was guaranteed to give you unflattering wrinkles. Princesses weren’t even allowed happiness because the public had to always seem them as perfect porcelain statues, no matter how cracked they were inside.

“Hermione,” Ginny said into her friend’s hair. They pulled apart.

“I’m so glad to see you.” Hermione turned to her mother. “Please, mother, let me stay up and talk with Ginny for a while.”

Her mother sighed, but she knew the strength of friendship was too powerful to break. “Not too late, you don’t want dark circles and tired eyes for your wedding. And not too loud, you mustn’t disturb your guests.”

Hermione brought Ginny up to her sitting room, where, when seated, the first thing the other girl said was, “So? What’s he like?”

“Who?”

Ginny sighed impatiently. “The prince, of course!”

“Oh, well - “ Hermione hesitated. What was the prince like? Everything he did seemed contradictory and perplexing. He had done his best to stay hidden from Hermione while standing right in front of her. “Mysterious, I suppose. Quiet.” She played with the ribbons on her dress.

“So you don’t really know what he’s like.”

“No,” Hermione confessed, “I don’t. One of the burdens we princesses have to bear - marrying enigmatic men.”

“At least he’s handsome,” said Ginny thoughtfully. “My prince doesn’t even look good in his official portrait, and those are supposed to make you as attractive as believably possible. He must be truly ghastly in real life. If he has a good personality that won’t matter, though. You don’t have any idea what the prince’s personality is like?”

“No,” said Hermione, “I don’t.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding day is here, along with a whole tangle of complicated feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: vaguely NSFW. but not really. Hermione's wedding dress inspired by the fourth dress on the left in this post: http://zealous4fashion.com/post/121030702997/zuhair-murad-spring-2016-bridal-collection

She lay awake that night thinking about the prince. Was he doing the same with her on his mind? His inscrutable face hovered in her mind, those dark, deep eyes that hid everything inside them. And he was there when she opened her eyes too, his portrait hanging on the wall right in front of her eyes. He looked almost sinister in the dark. But despite all this, Hermione found that she wanted to think about him, it wasn’t just natural pre-wedding thoughts. But why? Did she just want to figure him out, solve him? She wasn’t sure enough of her own feelings to know.

Tomorrow, she would be married.

~

She was awoken early, her new maid sweeping open the curtains to let in the rosy light of dawn.

“ _Natovaren den_ , your royal highness! _Mnogo da se napravi! Stavaĭ, stavaĭ_!”

They were to be married at noon, with her commencing her walk up the aisle exactly as the clock in the chapel struck the last chime of twelve. The morning was busy, a haze, people forgetting their royal manner or servant’s conduct and running up and down the halls, their shoes rapping on the flagstones. Hermione was in the middle of it all, dazed, pulled this way and that and then this way again. She was breathless all morning. Her dress stared at her from her wardrobe door for the whole time. It was a beautiful dress, belonging in a fairy tale. A dress sewn for true love. A dress made for beautiful girls whose smiles would light up their faces when they walked toward their husbands. She felt wrong in it as her maid zipped it up proudly.

“ _Lzglezhdash chudesno_ , your royal highness, _osven, che se mrŭshtyat_.” Servant girls, casting envious glances at her, brought forth a highly polished mirror.

The dress had a wide neckline, meticulously embroidered wildflowers from both Scotland and Bulgaria cascading down the skirt all the way to crowd the hem, as if the thread was dirt, and she had been walking in a muddy field. Her waist was cinched in by a corset, where the embroidery became even more complex and intricate. Her eyes rose up to her doubtful face, her large front teeth biting her lip, her wild hair tamed by pins. A plain girl in a beautiful dress. She wanted to rip it off. It was a lie. A lie about her, a lie about her marriage.

And there was the veil, the pearl-encrusted veil that flowed down her back and slithered along the floor behind her. The servant girls clasped their hands together and cooed. But Hermione just wanted to lie down, wait out this headache that was beating in her temple. These weren’t pre-wedding jitters - you didn’t get those, if the marriage was pre-arranged, there were no second thoughts because there had been no first ones. This was a fierce wish, so fierce it was making her head ache, a wish to fly away to a normal life, where she could fall in love with someone - even the prince - naturally and easily, a life where she would get pre-wedding jitters that would be cast away as soon as she saw her husband awaiting her like the petals the flower girls would cascade over the happy couple.

Then her mother and Ginny entered the room, her mother putting her hands to her mouth at the sight of her daughter dressed all in white.

“Darling! You look absolutely beautiful!”

Ginny, dressed in a petal blue dress that offset her flaming red hair, looked at her friend and Hermione could tell, by just one gaze, that she could see the girl underneath the dress: scared of everything today symbolized, doubtful, longing to be far away. She came forward and took Hermione’s hand in hers, reached up her other hand to touch Hermione’s warm cheek with her cool palm, so there were two of them now reflected in the mirror, and whispered, “It will be ok.”

Which was exactly what Hermione needed.

~

The time drew near. The first chime of twelve had struck, and Hermione stood in place before the chapel door, clasping her father’s arm, Ginny and and her other bridesmaids behind her. Her father leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

“That’ll be the last time I kiss my daughter as a free woman,” he said, almost sadly.

She squeezed his arm tightly. He looked so regal in all his finery, but so weary at the same time, and suddenly so achingly familiar that hot tears rose to her eyes.

“Oh Father,” she said in a hushed voice, “I’ll miss you so much.”

“And I’ll miss you,” he said, as the sixth chime echoed. Halfway there.

Hermione glanced behind her and Ginny gave her a reassuring smile.

_Ding_. Only five chimes left. Five chimes, and she would be married. Or, at the very least, walking into her marriage as she had never done before.

_Dong_. Four to go. She rubbed her sweaty palm down the side of her dress, feeling the protruding embroidery there.

_Ding_. Three. Her corset was done up so tight, her breathing came with difficulty. Another duty of royalty.

_Dong_. Just two more. Four heartbeats, four quick breaths. She hoped she wouldn’t trip over her long dress and embarrass her country.

_Ding_. Her mind turned to the prince. _Viktor_. Say his name in a hushed voice, like a secret. The door of the chapel began to open.

**_Dong_**. There. Her fate was sealed. And she was walking through the wide open door on her father’s arm, past those gazing faces, and there was the prince, standing up there expectantly in a blood stained uniform, small fur cape slung over his shoulder, regal and nervous all at once, like she felt, felt the heavy train dragging behind her, her eyes looking down, bashful, hesitant, hesitant feet feeling their way along the heavy, thick carpet, ready to trip her up, up at the ceiling above her, high and clouded with echoes, echoes of whispers about her, her eyes look back again at the prince, their eyes meeting, so close now, and, an involuntary smile forming on her lips, becoming wider when she saw him mirroring it, and then she was there, standing next to her, her father slipping away without her even noticing, noticing suddenly how long and dark his eyelashes were brushing his cheek, her cheeks flushed, flustered, not hearing the words the magistrate spoke, heart pumping in her ears, she didn’t want to be here, her movements robotic, forced, the words, “I do,” slipping clumsily from her mouth, his mouth, wide lips, moving towards hers, _I can’t do this, I’ve never even said his name out loud before I can’t kiss him, there are so many other things I haven’t done, I’m not ready for this stranger_ \- his lips met hers. Her entire body froze. His mouth was so warm, so soft, so unexpected. They were only together for a moment, a second of propriety, and then they were facing the crowd, who were clapping, and some women crying, including Hermione’s mother. She felt a strange warmth inside her. She was _married_. She was a _wife_ , a word that she didn’t feel, so old-sounding and binding. She still felt like a girl still, as she walked down the aisle again, now with the prince’s - her husband’s - arm through hers. The flower girls, the tiniest princesses, tossed white petals like snow at them, fluttering in Hermione’s face, catching in her hair, and she was surprised to find she was laughing, because she hadn’t known she’d started.

The afternoon passed in the same blur the morning had, but this time she had removed her heavy coat of anxiety, and felt so much lighter. There were toasts, champagne spilling over glasses, chatter, millions of congratulations strewn at her feet, a fruit cake iced as delicately as the flowers on her dress were embroidered. And then the world paused again for a moment, as the prince took her hand for the first dance. For a moment all she could feel was his hand on her waist and his fingers entwined through hers, then the music struck up, and he was guiding her in circles around the dance floor. The music was playing just for them. It felt so delightfully romantic to be the only couple dancing, Hermione felt as if she were dancing through the pages of one of her beloved books. And then the illusion smashed as other pairs walked onto the dance floor, and everything sped up again until they were standing in front of the prince’s bedroom door in uncomfortable hesitancy.

“Well,” said Hermione finally, “We may as well get it over with.”

He looked at her quizzically, but seemed to understand her, because he twisted the doorknob.

His bed seemed as huge as an ocean. Hermione didn’t want this man to touch her, as surely as she wouldn’t wanted her husband to touch her if he’d been sleeping with another woman; because they’d both be touching her, but thinking of someone else, and right now that someone else was in the room, smiling serenely down at them from her portrait. But it was expected - a baby within the first year of marriage or they’d be scorned.

The prince approached her, and tentatively reached out his hand to touch her shoulder. Impulsively, she flinched, and he drew his hand back as if she’d burned his skin, his thick eyebrows pulling together in a frown.

“I will be gentle,” he said, “I promise.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide. She had learned never to trust anybody, especially not men, and she didn’t trust him now just because he’d said “I promise.” Words could be spoken so easily without carrying any real weight. But she let him unzip her dress. She could feel his hands shaking as he did so. His hands rose and he slipped the dress slowly off her shoulders and down her arms. It feel to the floor at her feet, losing its beauty as it lay crumpled around her ankles. He bent down and picked it up, taking her ankles in his hands so she knew to lift up her feet, and with a care she would never have expected in a man, he smoothed it down and hung it in his wardrobe. Now she was just standing in the middle of the room, shivering, in her corset and under-things.

“In,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

She wanted to fight back. She wanted to protest, tell him that she wasn’t his dog. But it was cold standing here in so little clothes. Obediently, she climbed in while he dressed down to a state similar to hers. He had quite an athletic build she hadn’t noticed before. She supposed he must be a sportsman; all princes were.

They didn’t make love that night, just let their inexperienced hands explore each other’s bodies. His touch was as gentle as he’d promised. It felt so surreal to Hermione, as if it were a dream.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione is devastated when her parents leave, but will the Prince comfort her or remain distant?

_They didn’t make love that night, just let their inexperienced hands explore each other’s bodies. His touch was as gentle as he’d promised. It felt so surreal to Hermione, as if it were a dream._

~

When she woke up the next morning, she was in her own bed, casting more of a dream-like aura on the previous night. The first thought that came to her mind when she opened her eyes was: _I’m married now_. And then she recalled that today was the day her parents were to return to Scotland, leaving her alone with the Krums. A shiver rocked through her body. _No_ , she thought firmly, _they’re leaving me alone with my husband_. The thought of the word caused another involuntary spasm.

Her parents left after breakfast, wanting to make good time home, her father anxious about the importantances he’d missed. The tears that Hermione had swallowed since their departure from home now spilled down her cheeks at the sight of her parents wrapped in their travelling cloaks, trunks at their feet, and her, standing just in her dress at the foot of the stairs, a goodbye that she didn’t want to say perched on her lips.

“Well,” he father said finally, and just that one word, the way he said it, the way he’d always said it, was so heart-breakingly familiar now that she wouldn’t hear it for months to come, and she rushed towards her father, hugging him fiercely.

“Ah, Hermione,” he said, in a defeated voice, because he had finally given up his daughter. “You have grown into such a beautiful young woman,” he sighed. She stiffened at this obligatory nicety, something that all men said to their daughters when leaving them with their shiny new husband. “A woman with an intellect that would match any man’s,” he continued, “Including mine, which is something to be truly proud of.” At this she flushed, because she knew he really meant it.

“I’ll miss you so,” she said, “Write me as soon as you get back ho - to Scotland. I expect a letter from both mother and yourself.”

“I promise,” he said seriously, drawing back so she could see the sincerity written on his face. He gave her a short bow, which she returned, wiping away some of her tears when her face was hidden. Then she turned to her mother, a beautiful portrait of a woman with a sad smile painted on her face.

She hugged her mother even tighter than she had her father. Her mouth was to dry to speak now, her mind too clouded with sadness and eventuality to form words anyway.

“My dear daughter,” her mother said, “I’ll miss you terribly. How lonely Hogwarts will be without you stomping through its halls in that unladylike manner.” She gave a little laugh. “Be brave, Hermione, I know you are, but sometimes even the bravest of hearts and even the mightiest of lions need to be reminded.” She kissed her daughter on the forehead, their hair tangling together for a moment before she, too, stepped away, placing her hand to her mouth and looking down.

Her father made the proper formal goodbyes to King Nikola and the rest of the royal family, and then they were descending the steps to the lake, a reversal of their arrival except that now Hermione was part of the group standing on the dock.

As her father stepped into the little boat, he beckoned to Hermione. Shaking, she came forward, and he clasped his hand around hers. For a moment she thought he was going to help her into the boat, that she was leaving after all, but then she felt something cold pressed between their two palms, and his voice, from far away:

“Take this. I wanted to give it to the son I never had, but you are more than worthy, Hermione.”

She clasped the gift in her hand, holding it to her chest, and the boat pushed away from the shore, taking her parents away from her. She let out a little sob, and felt a hand settle on her shoulder. But for once she was barely aware, and all she wanted was for the boat to turn around. She didn’t even look at the trinket in her hand until she had returned to her room and thrown herself on her bed, planning on sobbing until she every tear inside her had kissed her cheek, but found that her tears had suddenly dried up, and a numb feeling had settled inside her in their place. Curling up on the far side of the bed, she opened her hand. Nestled inside was a polished gold pocket watch. Engraved on the front and back were thistles, the national plant of Scotland, twisting and twining round each other. The letters _W.W.G._ \- her father’s initials - were embossed on the rim of the watch. Holding her breath, Hermione opened it. Inside the lid a host of baby angels were painted, their skin emitting a golden glow that shone like guiding lanterns through the dark forest they were painted onto. They were so miniscule, the painter’s brush so delicate. And then there was the clock itself, ticking softly, a no-nonsense gentleman’s watch. Her father had trusted her with it, thought her worthy of it. And then all the unshed tears poured down her cheeks, soaking into her bed linens. She lay there for the rest of the day, ignoring her maid’s calls, probably trying to entice her down to lunch, then dinner. But there she stayed, locked up in her room, utterly miserable, the day after her wedding.

What finally made her stir was the sound of a slight rustling then something sliding across the flagstone floor. She sat up in bed. A letter sat on the floor, having been just pushed under the gap beneath her door. She checked her father’s watch: it was nearly 1am, very late, the darkest part of the night, and the most haunted. But she was sensible, and curious - a letter slipped under her door late in the night was very much an occurrence that might happen in one of the books she so adored. So she leaned over the bed and retrieved the letter, lighting the candle by her bedside so that she might read it. The single flame of the candle flickered over the words _Princess Hermione_. The hand was unfamiliar; it might have been written by anyone in the castle. The mystery seized her and she tore open the letter without even using the ruby-encrusted letter opener which she had received as a wedding present.

The letter was written in a tidy, flowing script. Her eyes lingered over every word.

****  
_My dear princess, **  
**_

_You may think it strange - or even a little forward - for me to write this letter to you when we are now united in such a way, and occupying back-to-back rooms. However, you may have noticed that words, particularly in your complicated language, don’t come easily to me when I speak aloud. So please, bare with me, and let me express myself in the way that will most help you understand my feelings._

_I am writing this in the dead of night, sitting up with my phrasebook and candle, to tell you, specifically, my feelings for you._

_You see - it is hard for me to even write the words on paper, knowing that you, with all suggestive evidence, feel the opposite way about me, but - I love you. I love you. I love you, Hermione._

_At first, I hated you - that smug girl in your portrait that looked as though she would easily place me in her pocket, deaf to any protestations - the type of woman to whom men are all weak, and creatures to be conquered. I was determined not to let this one master me._

_When you arrived I was tense, but I was so glad when I saw you were not that self-satisfied girl in your portrait, but an astoundingly real girl, with hopes and fears, and not a girl that pretended she had none. I might have fallen in love with you just because of the relief you produced in me, but never loved you, as I do now. I would have fallen in love with you if you were just any girl who wasn’t that smirking portrait, but you were you, and I came to realise I loved you. Right from the beginning, that little curl of hair that slipped from your head, the way you purposefully ignored it, the anxious way you fidgeted, the look of pure and solid delight on your face when you saw the library - I wanted to do anything to recreate that look. Even though we do not speak the same language, I can sense your intelligence, your kindness, and I can see your beauty - yes, beauty. I’ve seen how you cringe away from your reflection in the mirror and know that you won’t believe this, but Hermione - your eyes - simmering, melted chocolate showing infinite depth and your intelligence; your hair - as untameable as you are; your skin - cream and smooth except for where it is dotted by freckles; and your smile, a smile that would give even the most desperate man hope and make the even most depressed happy so long as you were smiling on them._

_On our wedding night, I was so frightened to hurt you, to be intimate with you. I’d hoped that time would bring us closer but - partly because of my manner, I think - you seemed further away than ever even when I held you close in my arms. It was as if I was in bed with your painted self, not you._

_But I fear you hate me. You have stayed distant from me since our first meeting, perhaps just mirroring the affected way of my shyness. You froze when I kissed you. But please, if you do, I beg you not to tell me. I will give you everything, I will keep on loving you from afar and leave you to your peace, so long as you don’t say those dreaded words._

_It was because of my shyness around people that I was unable to comfort you today, even when tears flowed freely from your eyes, even while the sound of your little sobs through the wall broke my heart into more and more pieces. I hope now that I have confessed my true feelings I will be able to act more freely around you._

_I apologize if these words have at all offended or disturbed you. I assure you, that was never my intention._

_Yours,_

_V._

**  
**The prince’s letter _had_ disturbed Hermione; it had disturbed the feelings inside her that she had been unable to name and brought them up to the surface, revealing their name, scratched onto her heart: _love_. She was not in love with the prince, as he had said, she _loved_ him. **  
**

She didn’t think, didn’t linger to smooth down her crumpled dress, but seized open the door, fled into the hall, and wrenched open the door to the prince’s room, without even knocking. He was sitting at his desk, head in his hands, but when he heard her come in he looked up and rose to his feet. The beginnings of her name rose to his lips, but she cut him off, her arms encircling him, her mouth finishing the kiss they had only started at the front of the church. It felt so much more natural now, in the darkness of his bedroom, both still in their day clothes although the clock was just striking 1am, their foreheads pressed together, their lips speaking the words they still had not said aloud to each other. His hand slid into her hair, even more wild than usual. Their foreheads stayed touching even after they had finished kissing.

“I love you too,” Hermione whispered, “Viktor.”

At that moment, as he pulled her chin gently towards him to kiss her again, everything slid into place, the hollow feeling of emptiness she’d got after her parents had abandoned her filling with love for Viktor, and the walls surrounding them suddenly meant ‘home’ to her. In that moment, she was happier than any normal girl could ever hope to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god Viktor's letter is so soppy, I apologize. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, thanks to kana and especially BCgurlie for your encouraging comments! <3


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